


May the road rise up to meet you

by MMXIII



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:49:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMXIII/pseuds/MMXIII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Oh for god’s sake. What-‘</p><p>                                             ‘James…’ slurs the voice on the other end, half drowned in a broken exhale that slides into a sticky cough.</p><p>[In which mortality is a b*tch]</p>
            </blockquote>





	May the road rise up to meet you

_Well you can tell by the way I-_

 

 

It’s always such a shame, Jim thinks idly in the split-second before he picks up, to cut off that particular number mid-flow, though he has been itching to change it to something rather more grandiose for a while; Queen perhaps, definitely sexier, or Stevie Nicks…

‘ _Yes?’_ , he demands, having glanced at the caller ID.

A deluge of intricately wrought insults flit across his brain as he casts a distinctly unsavoury glance across the half of his office that has the misfortune of finding itself in his line of sight. He had been composing a gloriously elaborate political tragi-comedy in three acts involving an oligarch, two Saudi princes and a handful of chimerical G8 leads before the BeeGees interupted his own personal symphony of pulse, and a little bit of Brahms

 

Texting was decidedly preferable; he’d been over this.

 

The line, however, is infuriatingly silent save an odd crackling noise and Jim’s impatience, always poised, positively snarls, preparing to manifest itself in a fit of imperious staccato consonants:

‘Oh for god’s _sake_. What-‘

                                             ‘ _James_ …’ slurs the voice on the other end, half drowned in a broken exhale that slides into a sticky cough.

 

                                                                                                                               Jim make a thousand and one inferences instantaneously.

                                                                                                                               And, for a moment, there is only white noise.

 

 

 

_Look at me, Jim, look at me_

_Stop it, STOP IT NOW_

_Oh for fucks sake, James_

_Idiot_

_You look tired_

_I saw that                                                                                            Piss off_

_What the fuck is this?_

_Un-fucking-believable_

_Shit, FUCK…don’t laugh, I can see you laughing from here_

_Get that out of my face_

_Of course it fucking hurts, arsehole_

_CHRIST_

_Oh god, that’s disgusting_

_Do I look like the maid?_

_That looks ridiculous_

_No, wait, can’t you-_

_OW, bastard_

_I am NOT eating that…_

_Get it yourself, dick_

_What is that smell…?_

_Pass it over, I’ll show you_

_I know that look…the answer is ‘no’_

_WILL YOU TURN THAT DOWN_

_Honey I’m home_

_Have you eaten? I haven’t seen you eat since Monday_

_Over my dead- actually no, never mind_

_Fuck you. FUCK YOU_

_He screamed funny, you would’ve loved it_

_Didn’t I tell you to-                                                 Will you stop pointing that at me_

_Where are you?_

_What? What?! Oh come on,  I thought it was funny_

_Is this blood? Oh Christ, Jim_

_If you do that again, I will shoot you in in the fucking head_

_Hey, it’s me_

_Go back to sleep_

The crackle of pained breathing jolts him out of his split-second daze, the afternoon draining from the sky unnoticed as the shards of fading light draped across the desk elongate imperceptibly.

‘ _Where_?’ he murmurs, just as a jarring, hacking _liquid_ cough wrecks the clarity of the line. Jim can practically _taste_ the blood squelching, half congealed and tacky, through those careless, dextrous fingers, seeping into the inelegant keypad of a battered 8-bit Nokia.  There is a groan and a soft, bubbly, torn-abdomen _fuck_ that tails of into a Marlboro Reds wheeze;

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes. There's an unpleasant throbbing just inside his ears, and his eyes are _burning_ :

‘I said, _where_?’


End file.
